Mistaken Identity
by RainbowBetty
Summary: Sam and Dean are captured by drug traffickers who think they have information they they don't, and they force Dean to hurt Sam to get it. Dean goes after revenge. Now complete!
1. Chapter 1

The man holding the gun trained on Sam nodded to the man holding Dean's arms behind his back.

"I'm going to have him release you," he said to Dean. "And when I do, I'm going to trust that you're not going to make any sudden moves. The first move you make will put a bullet through your brother's head, do you understand me?"

Dean gritted his teeth. "Yeah, I hear you," he said. He looked anxiously at Sam, who was still seemed to be struggling to stay conscious after that last blow. Beneath the blood and the bruising, the left side of his face was starting to swell, and Dean worried about fractures. He worried about the angle of Sam's wrists in the cuffs holding him against the beam in the center of the room. He tried not to think about how much pain Sam was in, and what these bastards had done to him in the hours before they'd dragged Dean in with a gun pressed to his head shouting _it's not in the fucking car._

They would worry about that later. They would fix everything later, after Dean beat and bloodied everyone else in this room.

"Okay. Let him go," said the man in charge, and Dean angrily yanked his arms away from the man behind him. When he heard the gun cock, his stomach twisted and he froze where he stood.

"I see you learn fast," the man said.

Dean's hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"I'm losing my patience. Obviously _my_ attempts at persuasion aren't convincing your brother to give up the intel. So _you're_ going to convince him."

Dean blinked at him. "What?"

"Doug," he said over Dean's shoulder to another man in the room. "Give him the thing."

Sam struggled to raise his head to find Dean across the room, to meet Dean's eyes. Dean tried to communicate everything he had with one look. _I don't know, I don't know what they want. This is bad. We're most likely royally fucked, but don't sweat it I'll figure something out. Hang in there, man._

Sam got everything he needed the instant their eyes met. _Dean. You're there._

The man by the name of Doug, tall and broad-shouldered, came and stood in front of Dean. He pressed a thick, leather whip into Dean's hand. Dean looked down at it, not comprehending. _What the fuck…?_ Then he heard cloth tearing and looked up to see two other men ripping what was left of Sam's shirt from his arms and chest.

Dean started to feel sick. "No. Fuck, no!" He flung the whip down and away from himself and advanced on the gun-holding man. Doug caught him by the arm, and Dean got one solid punch in before the five men overpowered him, pinning his arms back and forcing him to his knees.

Dean was breathing hard, both from the struggle and from the panic rising in his chest. When he looked up again, the man in charge was standing directly in front of him. The man raised the gun and brought the handle of it down hard against Dean's temple. The room spun and pain lanced through his skull. He felt a warm trickle making its way down his cheek.

Dean did his best impression of a smile. "Ouch," he said sweetly.

"I'll explain this for you again, mate," he said. "Your brother knows where the product is. And you're going to make him tell me. You could try asking him nicely, but believe me, we've already tried that. So I'm going to have you beat it out of him."

He bent over the picked up the whip Dean had thrown aside, and presented back it to Dean, hilt end first.

"No!" Dean said. "There's no way. I'm not doing that." He looked at Sam. Sam's hands were clenching around the metal cuffs. _Fuck no, Sam, I won't do that to you, it's not happening._

"Then you're no use to any of us. Which means I guess that 'Sam' here gets to _watch_ while we use you as target practice."

Dean was actually taken aback. That was sudden. For some reason he thought he would have more time to bargain. Strategize. Outsmart or overpower someone. Not be backed into a corner and shot like an animal while his brother was tortured for information they didn't have.

"Dean!"

"Sam, I—"

"Dean, do it. Please. It's okay."

"_No!"_

Sam's head rolled against his arm suspended above him, his eyes wide and pleading. _Don't get killed,_ they said. _Stay alive. We'll fix everything else later, like always._

Dean's heart was hammering in his chest. "He doesn't know, you asshole. Whatever it is you think he knows, he doesn't. You have the wrong guys. Fucking let him go."

Gunman smirked and offered Dean the whip. "Convince me."

On his knees, Dean weighed his options one last time. He came up empty._ Stay alive, get through this, shove it down, fix it later. _"Okay," he spat.

The men hauled him to his feet because his legs didn't want to work. He didn't want to reach for the ugly looking weapon, so they closed his hand around it, and they led him across the room to stand several feet behind Sam.

Sam shifted his feet bringing his knees in against the beam, his head down. He was bracing himself for the pain he knew was coming, and Dean closed his eyes, wishing he had let the men shoot him. He couldn't take it. He couldn't do this.

Behind him, the cold metal click of the gun reminded him that he had to. He'd promised. _Stay alive._

"Fuck. I'm sorry, Sammy."

_It's not Sam. Don't think of it as Sam. It's just a body. Just a back. Just a thing. Just an action. Don't think. Don't be here. Just stay alive._

He closed his eyes and flinched hard as his arm that felt like someone else's arm brought the thick leather strap down and made contact with his brother's bare skin. Part of him was glad Sam didn't make a sound, and part of him wanted Sam to yell out and curse at him for doing this, for not protecting him from all of this. He would have given anything to trade places with Sam. Anything.

_It's not Sam. Don't think of it as Sam._ Dean kept his eyes closed, but it didn't stop the agony he felt at the sound of leather striking flesh.

"Again," said the man with the gun. "Harder. Until I say stop."

Dean closed a tight fist around the rage building inside him, careful not to let it spill out into the strikes he was wielding. He had to be careful, so careful, to make the _crack_ sound like it was hitting harder than it was, to sound like he was giving more pain while holding back as much as he could, and not give in to the tide of despair that was threatening to drown him. _Don't think. Don't be here. Separate._

Again. Again. Sam lost his footing and yelped, sliding against the beam until he could brace himself again, and Dean saw that his cheeks were wet with the tears he'd been holding back and _oh fuck. Fuck, Sam._

The man named Doug signaled with his phone to the man with the gun. "Not an Impala," he said.

"What are you talking about? He was sure it was an Impala."

Doug shrugged, "Found it in a Lincoln on the east side."

"I'll be damned."

Dean stood in the middle of the exchange, the weight of the whip heavy against in his sweat-slicked palm, and all the pieces suddenly fell into place. "You were looking for drugs," he growled. "You fucking lowlifes—"

"Yeah, sorry mate," the leader made a motion to his men that had them filing out the door. "Better days." He dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a handcuff key, which he tossed to Dean.

Dean caught it in midair, reeling from the sudden turn of events. Outside the building, he heard excited voices, car doors slamming and the squeal of tires on pavement.

Sam moaned, his eyes rolling back in his head, and Dean was immediately at his side. "Goddamn it, Sam." It was all he could say. All he trusted himself to say at the sight of Sam's injuries up close.

He brought the key up to the cuffs, and hesitated, not sure how he should do this. He wasn't sure if Sam would want him to catch him if he couldn't stand on his own. He doubted Sam would want Dean _touching_ him after what he'd done to his own brother. Dean winced. He'd get it done quickly, get through it then fix it later. If Sam hated him that was understandable. Dean hated himself pretty thoroughly right now.

"Okay, Sam," he said, as gently as he could. "I'm going to undo these. You can lean against me or you can lean against the beam here, either way, okay? You with me? I'm not going anywhere."

Sam nodded, and as Dean opened the cuffs Sam's hands fell numbly to his sides. Sam leaned heavily against Dean, which caught Dean a bit off guard but he recovered quickly and gingerly lowered his little brother to the floor. "Let me look at your back, Sam," he said, flinching to himself because _he_ had done this. No matter what else Sam had suffered, Dean had done _this, _each red, angry laceration, the swollen and torn skin, it was all his doing.

"Dean," Sam said weakly. "I don't—"

Dean drew his hands back quickly. "Right. Right, I get it. No, I won't… touch you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Sam."

Sam looked confused. "No, Dean. I meant… I was going to say I don't want you to beat yourself up. Because you will, I know you will. But there was no other way."

"Of course there was another way."

"No. There wasn't. You had to do to. I told you to."

"Yeah, and since when do I listen to _you?_ I'm older." Satisfied that Sam wasn't in danger of bleeding out, he stood up and hoisted Sam up under his arms. "Think you can walk?"

Sam sank against him. "G'mme a minute."

Dean waited, holding all of Sam's weight until the dizziness, nausea, pain, emotion or whatever was passing over Sam had passed. "Okay," he breathed. "'m good."

"You're good?"

"Good enough. Fixable. You?"

"Yeah, probably..."

Sam squeezed Dean's arm and let himself be led out to the Impala.

Dean frowned. "They said east side, right?"

"Huh?"

"Nothing. Just... talking to myself."

* * *

_To be continued_


	2. Chapter 2

That was the nice thing about the good drugs. They worked, and they worked fast.

Dean uneasily paced the tight confines of the small hotel room, cracking his knuckles out of nervous habit and trying not to run his shins into the tightly spaced table and chair, until he heard Sam's breathing even out into the gratifyingly soft, even rhythm of sleep.

He stepped purposefully around the sharp chair leg to the side of Sammy's bed. "Hey, Sam," he whispered, jiggling his shoulder a bit. He couldn't keep the mischievous grin off his face. "Hey! Do you remember that time I saw Rachel Nave's tits?"

Sam inhaled and rolled his face into the pillow, oblivious to Dean's voice and everything else around him.

Dean's grin twisted a bit, and he gave his sleeping brother's shoulder an affectionate squeeze. "Okay, you're right, that wasn't fair. And she did have nice tits. You were lucky to have them, especially at your tender age. Look, I know you're in la-la land right now buddy and you can't hear a word I'm saying. So I'm gonna leave you a note, just like the awesome big brother I am, okay? I'll be back before the good drugs even wear off."

He waited for any sign that Sam wasn't as under as he appeared to be, then walked over to the table and left the note, just as he'd promised.

"Sam—" he wrote, "Had to go do something stupid. Don't act so surprised. Stay here."

* * *

Dean knew exactly where he was going.

He didn't have an address or a name or a lead to follow, but he had a direction and a purpose. Sometimes that was all he needed. Let Sam worry about logic and details. He could run on pure determination when he needed to, and he was damn proud of that.

While the sawed-off in his lap gave him reassurance that he wouldn't get hassled by the wrong kind of asshole, it was the crowbar on the seat beside him that he was planning to carry with him when the time came. Because he wanted those fuckers to feel their own bones breaking, and he wanted to feel their pain to reverberating through his own hands. A bullet would have been too good for them.

And maybe that wouldn't make up for any of it. Maybe it wouldn't fix the yawning gulf of terrible wrongness that threaded through him, it wouldn't erase any of the helplessness or the horror of having hurt Sam. But right now, it was the only thing that seemed like a good idea. Because Sam refused to talk about blame, and dammit, Dean needed to settle down into the familiar comfort of black-and-white, all-or-nothing thinking.

These people had fucked with him. With Sam. He needed to hit back.

"Hey! Impala!"

_Well, I'll be damned._ Blind luck strikes again.

Dean slowed and eased over to street corner decked out with graffiti-laced buildings where a crowd of youths were smoking and taunting passing pedestrians and cars. One of the kids leaned into Dean's passenger side door casually as Dean lowered the window about an inch, keeping his weapon in clear view. The kid noticed and gave him a nod. He pulled back his jacket a notch just so Dean could see his own semi.

"You know this car?" Dean asked.

"Why you down here, Impala? You got a death wish?"

"I'm looking for someone."

"Yeah? You in luck! Someone looking for you!"

"Okay. So how about you tell me where to find the asshole and we just keep it between us?"

"Man! You trippin. Liberty a friend of mine." He looked back at his group of buddies and laughed at what a joke Dean was.

"Right, well thanks for the heads up then." Dean yanked on the handle of the window to close it.

"Wait, wait! I'm jus' playin! I'm a nice guy, I can help a brotha out! You just gotta… _you know_."

Dean scoffed. "Right." He leaned over toward the glove box. "My wallet's in here," he clarified, not wanting to get shot in the head over a misunderstanding. The kid's smile broadened as Dean slid several twenties through the slit in the window. "Now which way?"

"Brown brick building at the end of the next street, look for Liberty Investment Corp." The kid slammed a hand down on the roof of the Impala. "Pleasure doin' business with you sir!"

His whole gang burst into laughter as if this were the funniest thing they'd ever heard. Dean quickly pulled away from the curb feeling uneasy and off his game. His hand wrapped around the crowbar, trying to tap back into the need for revenge. He'd been riding it pretty much nonstop since Sam had finally given in to the exhaustion and physical shock in the hotel bathroom while Dean was carefully cleaning the cuts on his back, and his guard must have dropped at the same moment the drugs kicked in because he clutched Dean's sleeve with a hand that shook, and he didn't stop shaking until sleep overtook him.

Maybe all the crap Dean had been holding off dealing with was starting to set in. Well if that was the case, this was fucking poor timing. The run-down, single story office building emblazoned with silver, art-deco style letters appeared in front of him, poorly lit and set back in an industrial court fenced in by factories and warehouses.

Avoiding street lights, even though he strongly suspected his element of surprise had already been blown by his encounter with the street kids, Dean rounded the building and pulled up on the street behind Liberty Investment.

A dark blue, beat-to-hell '84 Lincoln sat parked in the lot behind the building, making Dean do a double take. "Oh, hell no. Baby... That's not even..." He shook his head, unable to fathom anyone, even a crackhead scumbag mistaking this _thing_ for an Impala. For _his_ Impala. It only made the wrongness of the situation that much more palpable.

He pulled up and parked behind the imposter vehicle, killed the engine, and pulled out his phone to put a number on speed dial before slipping it back into his jacket pocket. Then he reached for the crowbar, closing his hand around the cool steel and seizing on the surge of adrenaline brought on by the events of the day. He shook his head to drive away the feelings he didn't want and focused on the man who evidently went by the name of Liberty, the man who'd held the gun on Sam – the smug look on his face when he'd held the whip out to Dean and said _convince me._

At that moment he wanted nothing more than to embed the crowbar into the man's brain pan.

_Anger is a gift,_ mused Dean Winchester, slamming the door to the Impala and striding purposefully toward the back entrance where he heard voices carrying through the rusted metal doors.

The aged bolt yielded to the thrust of Dean's boot with a sickening, metal-on-metal screech. The conversation stopped at once, drawing all eyes in the room to him. The only sound was that of four guns being simultaneously drawn and triggers pulled back. Dean smirked, shifting the weight of the crowbar in his hand. "Fellas," he greeted.

Liberty was leaning against a wooden desk with his arms folded arrogantly over his chest in mid-conversation. At the sight of Dean, he held up a hand, which seemed to signal his men not to shoot, and took a step forward so that he was standing in the midst of his armed entourage.

"It's either the height of arrogance or stupidity not to recognize a free pass when you see one in this line of work, mate."

"Yeah, well." Dean kicked over one of the chairs standing between him and the armed men. "I'm not in your line of work. And we weren't exactly done."

"That so?"

"Give me ten minutes, you and me, without your fan club here, and we can consider our score settled."

Liberty laughed. Then his eyes narrowed and he smiled. "I see, _older brother_. I put you in a position of weakness. I took away your power, your ability to protect, and now you can't live with yourself until you take that back the only way you know how.

"Sure, whatever, Dr. Phil. Or maybe I'd just really like to bash your face in. Dealer's choice."

"I like you, Dean Winchester." He smiled at the glimmer of surprise on Dean's face at the use of his name. "I'll give you your ten minutes as long as you'll consider what those ten minutes will actually cost you."

"Oh, and what's that?"

"Your brother's respect."

Dean wasn't even aware of what happened next. There was no conscious thought behind the way he swung the crowbar the way he did, kicked one leg out to disarm one man while throwing his shoulder into the gut of another. All he was aware of was the thin veil of red haze clouding his vision and the coil of rage in his chest that fueled every punch, and the odd way time seemed to have slowed down and sped up at the same time, making him hyper-aware of every blow he landed.

By the time conscious thought caught up with him again, Liberty was pinned to the floor beneath his knees, and Dean felt the satisfying crack of his fist against the man's jaw, over and over again.

_Again. Harder. Until I say stop._

Something Dean had barely been holding in check nearly snapped. He made a sound, like a threatening growl, and he clenched his hands around the man's throat.

"I should kill you, you son of a bitch," he ground out. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you, you worthless piece of shit. I should do the world a favor right now, shouldn't I."

Liberty choked around Dean's grip, coughing and spitting blood mixed with saliva. His eyes met Dean's. Then, ever so faintly, he smiled.

Dean jerked back. It might as well have been a slap in the face, because it had the same effect of bringing him back to reality. He took his hands off Liberty's throat, and the man gasped, curling in around his bruised windpipe as Dean stood and surveyed the room of unconscious and bloody men. Without a word, he withdrew his phone and called the number he had pre-programmed in.

"Yeah, I'd like to report a violent disturbance in the 1900 block of Liberty and Goodfellow," he said, stepping over a twitching leg. He reached down to scoop up his crowbar. "I'm pretty sure you'll find evidence of drug activity."

* * *

Sam was awake when Dean opened the door to their room, sitting at the table with the note crumpled in one hand.

"How stupid?" Sam asked, not quite looking at Dean.

Dean pulled out a chair and sat down across from Sam. "Is there any way we could just laugh this off and agree it's one of those jobs we're not going to talk about ever again?"

Sam didn't say anything. He rolled the edge of Dean's note between his thumb and finger.

"Christ, is this a sharing moment? Are you doing to make me share my feelings now too?"

"No, _Dean."_ He was pissed. "I don't want to hear about your feelings. I'm not your goddamn therapist." He exhaled and looked up, eyebrows raised. "You kill anybody?"

Dean felt the words like a physical blow. "_No,_ I didn't kill anybody. We don't _kill people_, Sam."

_"I_ know that."

"Jesus, Sam. I just needed to… I just knocked a few heads together, okay? Unfinished business. That's it. And now it's over. Can we move on, please?"

"Sometimes I swear it's like you're _trying_ to get killed. You walk away from things we shouldn't walk away from, and then you go charging back in like you're disappointed."

"It's not like that. I knew what I was doing."

"Oh really? So what was your plan, exactly? What backup did you have? Who would have even known where to look for your body? Thanks for the _note_ by the way, that was really helpful." Sam crushed what was left of the paper in his fist before tossing it back toward their beds.

"Let it go, Sam."

"You don't _think_. You don't ever _think_, you just react."

"Yeah, well maybe you think too damn much."

"You know what? Screw you. You're not the only one this happened to, and you're not the only one who wanted to…"

Sam clenched his hands together. That's when Dean noticed they were still shaking.

"Hey. Sammy. You all right?"

Sam nodded. He ran his fingers through his hair, leaning forward on his elbows and pressing his eyes into the palms of his hands. "I'm fine," he said. "It's fine."

Dean shoved his chair back and came around to Sam's side of the table, crouching down so that he was at eye level with his brother. He took hold of Sam's wrists and gently pulled Sam's hands away from his face. "Sam." He tapped Sam on the cheek with two fingers. "Dude, listen to me. You remember when I used to beat up kids at school who picked on you? Do you?"

Sam smirked, but he quickly ducked his head, hiding his eyes behind his hair. "Yeah, I remember."

"Same fucking thing. Okay? It's just a bigger school, and the bullies have guns, but I'm never going to stop trying to kick anyone's ass who comes after you. No matter how big of a pain in the ass you get. You're my little brother, man."

Sam was quiet for a long time. Then he nudged Dean with his elbow. "Bullies with guns. You just reduced the entire drug cartel to bunch of overgrown third-graders."

Dean laughed. "C'mere, bitch," he said, wrapping his arms around him in a way he hoped didn't hurt.

He felt Sam draw a breath that hitched ever so slightly, and Dean didn't say a word. He would fix this. _They_ would fix it. Like always.


	3. Epilogue

_Two days later._

* * *

Dean usually skipped the local news. But this particular anchor, with her wide, blue eyes and pouty lips, well… the way she talked about the horrible accident on 94 made him care an awful lot.

As her voice intercut with images of flashing emergency lights and wet pavement, Dean began to feel the suggestion of sleep prick the back of his eyes, days of tension finally easing and giving way. He let his head drift back against the headboard, fumbling with his hand along the bedspread next to him for the remote.

When Dean brought the button up toward the screen, his reporter girlfriend had moved on to her next story. He paused and then sat forward in surprise at video footage of a man he recognized as Liberty being handcuffed and guided toward a police vehicle.

"… being held in connection with alleged kidnapping and related drug charges. The men in custody are reported to be—"

"Hey, Sam!" Dean started to say, wanting his brother to have the poetic satisfaction of seeing this jackass being led around in handcuffs of his own. He was slightly disappointed to see Sam already deeply asleep, with his face half-buried in the pillow. Weird, he hadn't even noticed him dozing off. Dean shrugged and moved his thumb toward the "off" button just as the video footage cut back to the newsroom.

"The statement issued by the accused," said the blonde anchor, her blue eyes looking wide and serious into the camera, "was directed at one _Dean Winchester. _Dean. I offered you a pass, mate. You should have taken it."

Dean gasped awake suddenly, his heart hammering in his throat, tearing at the twisted knot of blankets that had managed to wrap themselves around him while he slept. He felt hands on his shoulders, and he pushed back, striking out blindly. The hands were holding him, holding his arms and he panicked until he realized.

Sam. They were Sam's hands. Sam's voice. "Dean! Jesus, Dean, calm down, okay?"

He blinked, breathing hard. He rolled over to the other side of the bed, away from Sam, away from the embarrassment at the extent of his freak out. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"What the hell was that?"

"I don't know. Just. Bad dream. Forget it."

"Do you—"

_"No,_ I don't want to talk about it." Dean snapped. He ran a tired hand over his face. "Sorry. I don't mean to be like that. I just _really,"_ he looked back at Sam for emphasis. "Really don't."

"Okay."

Dean took a breath. He looked over at the screen of the TV, clouded over with busily dancing dots of static. "Sam, first thing tomorrow, we're putting road between us and this town, okay?"

Sam grinned. "Yeah, whatever you need, man."

* * *

_End._


End file.
